


suddenly, i was crying / it was already love

by forest_creatures



Series: how shall i hold back my soul from touching yours [2]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Appearances from Adam and Morgan and Farah, Emotionally Repressed Detective, F/M, Falling In Love, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, the Yearning and the Pining and the Intimacy of being seen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forest_creatures/pseuds/forest_creatures
Summary: "Nate, which is another word for body-ache, his presence swelling up in her chest, spilling down her ribs, to the fingertips. She feels the fullness of him like a fresh bruise, pressed down."--Detective Amaia Castle and Nathaniel Sewell, told in moments.1. black tea and observations. (book one.)2. almost. (book three.)3. charming. (book two-three.)4. thunder. (book three.)5. relief. (deep romance.)
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: how shall i hold back my soul from touching yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148186
Comments: 15
Kudos: 20





	1. black tea, observations

**Author's Note:**

> prompts, snippets, and one-shots written for these two pining fools... not necessarily in chronological order. rating may vary.

Amaia steps forward, raises her hand to adjust the strings on the board, connecting nothing but needing the motion, needing to feel like she’s _moving_ , and sighs as her fingers brush the bloody outline of their victim.

It is... frustrating, to say the least. Drawing red strings that lead to nothing, and linking clues that lead to nothing, on a board that had to be rolled up from the basement, to give peace to that dead girl, family-less, her final moments one last, silent scream behind the fish-milky sheen of her eyes. They have _nothing,_ save the half formed ramblings of an old woman and the strange, mutated blood Verda pours over. 

And the strangers at the warehouse, that serrated encounter crawling to the forefront of her mind. Her teeth grind in her skull, stress throbbing dully at her temple; she _knows_ what she heard, and she wouldn’t put it above Rebecca to lie.

“Detective Castle.” 

Speaking of. 

Agent Sewell— _Nate,_ he’d encouraged, and she had met the informality of the gesture with a hard stare—steps carefully into her office, his gaze flicking behind her shoulder to the board.

In one hand, he’s clutching a slim stack of folders, manila and nondescript, and in the other a lidded styrofoam cup from the station’s tiny kitchen area, a thin line of steam wafting from it.

He waits in the doorway, that same soft, polite smile gracing his lips, and she stiffens, the strain tightening across her shoulders as she crosses her arms, nods. “Agent.” 

(Amaia can’t remember if she’s seen him frown, even once—no word or look sharper than level neutrality, his lips perpetually hinting at smile, his eyes reminding her of a doe’s, warm-soft.)

“Here, as you requested,” he takes across her office in a few long, quick strides, folders extended. “These are all the files the Agency has on your killer.”

_Your killer._ She narrows her eyes, and he stills, that damned smile still on his mouth; waiting, content to be observed. 

So she looks. It’s an interesting word choice. _Your killer. Your case._ He makes a point of reemphasizing this, and she can’t tell if he’s trying to placate her, or abdicating responsibility. Given his painfully obvious unofficial position as mouthpiece and liaison for his more ill-mannered teammates, she chalks it up to the first.

She takes the files—slowly, careful not to make contact with his knuckles, his long fingers—and cuts to the other side of her desk, away from the strange, shucking sensation of his gaze.

“Thank you, Agent.” She dismisses, turning to the side and flipping open the first folder, skimming the small, cramped block text. The skin of her neck, her cheek, flares with tingling awareness. He’s still looking at her. 

In the next instant, he’s by her side, leaning into the corner of her desk a few steps away, somehow not invasive. She didn’t even hear his footfalls on the raspy carpet. The cup, held out like an olive branch. “This is also for you.” 

(She thinks: the boys who have tilted their heads back, _let me buy you a drink_ , _don’t be like that, babe—_ she thinks: Bobby, sliding his fingers around her waist, whining in her ear to _lighten up_ , to not be so _icy—_ she thinks: the crime scene technician, asking her if she was _busy_ later while kneeling over a dead girl.)

_Of course,_ she shakes her head, biting back a scowl.

“I prefer tea.” 

He smiles again, unfretted by her clipped response—tilts his head to the small stack of mugs on her desk, the dark ringed stains on the corners of her notes. “So I can tell,” and, brightly, “as do I,” and turns the cup around to the tag, the same as all of her mugs. Not coffee.

“You are more than welcome to drink it, then.” 

“I prefer mine with sugar, I’m afraid,” he chuckles, a warm, honeyed sound, and sets the styrofoam on the desk, again unfazed. Not resistant, not scowling, and Amaia blinks, raising her chin up to meet his eyes. 

She waits for the next line, the subtle insistence; she’s met plenty of men who thought they were charming, and braces herself for the inevitable display of his wounded pride.

All he does is smile, expression muted and calm—not placid, but at ease, as if he’d expected the reaction and proceeded anyway— _what, to be polite?_ For the sake of it? He doesn’t need to _win_ her over, if that’s what he’s trying to do. She’s a professional, and will work with him regardless. And they aren’t _friends._

“What do you want?” She blurts, frowning till she can feel the groove of her brow.

He blinks, the smile fading out into a softly open mouth, drawing her focus for a split second before returning to his eyes. “I’m sorry?” 

“What is this for?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” She gestures to the tea, and his lips curve again, though his expression remains half-confused. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Like I said, it’s for you, if you want. Of course, you don’t have to drink it.”

“ _Why?”_

“You’ve barely left your office over these last few days—and not at all since this morning.” He straightens up, shoving his hands into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched—the gesture of a man who knows how he looms, softening himself down for her. 

“And?”

“And,” he chuckles, a warm, honeyed sound; low and weighted. Her chest squeezes up strangely. “I’m here to help you however I can—” this, he says like it’s obvious, all his good intentions right on his sleeve, “—including these smaller ways. It’s important to remember to take care of yourself as well, Detective.”

“That—...” _oh._ She wants to believe him, oddly enough. “Well... that’s...”

Nate’s lips curl again, indulgent in her momentary fumbling, and her cheeks heat up, her arms cross. “Thank you, I suppose. But I can take care of myself.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

Oh.

She whiteknuckles the inside of her arm, mouth dropping open, feeling her eyes widen. _Get a hold of yourself,_ she thinks, and pushes her shoulders back, drops her gaze. 

A quiet surrender, and somehow she feels like she’s lost a round, ceded ground to this odd, gentle relentlessness. Clearing her throat, she stares at the still wafting steam of the tea. “Is that all?”

She counts the seconds of silence—four, but it stretches out—before he finally says, with his voice still even and toned, “I should return to Adam and the others.”

(Somehow, she wishes there had been more.)

It isn’t until his quiet, barely there steps have receded to the mouth of her door that she looks up again, finds him watching her with mild, almost serene curiosity. 

Nate’s mouth opens, closes, like he’s turning the words over in his mind.

“Yes?” She prompts, gentler than before. 

Deciding on what he wants to say, one hand wrapped loosely around the doorknob, he nods. “I’m glad to be working on this case with you. It’s obvious, how much you care.” 

Amaia freezes, watching him watch her. No one has ever accused her of being _caring_ before. Cold, yes. _Frigid_ , as Bobby would put it. Capable, but unsoftened.

Her stomach twists, almost nauseous. 

He’s looking at her far too kindly, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Nate meets her silence with a smile, and the nausea worsens. “If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to let me know.” 

And he’s gone, but her heart still kicks, her stomach shuddering. 

Of all the times to get _sick._

She lasts all of two minutes before reaching for the tea, still warm. Strikingly bitter, over-steeped. 

She never told him how she takes it.


	2. almost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: a shy kiss, on tumblr.

“Is there anything else I should know?”

_He’s lovely._

“Just that we’ll be meeting tomorrow night at the Warehouse. It shouldn’t take long to arrive where the pack asked us to go. After that...”

“Agent du Mortain and I will meet with the werewolves and their leader, and discuss what they need to settle here.”

“Exactly,” Nate smiles, and that word curls up against the bottom of her spine again; _lovely,_ like fingers trailing up her back, settling between her shoulders. Nate, which is another word for body-ache, his presence swelling up in her chest, spilling down her ribs, to the fingertips. She feels the fullness of him like a fresh bruise, pressed down.

They stop in front of her apartment, the air still. Distantly, she can hear the soft thump of a door opening and shutting, and she wonders what _he_ hears. 

The rustle of human presence, maybe? Her neighbors mulling in their homes, dishes clinking as dinner passes, the barely there hum of slow conversation. Are the words clear to him? Straight lines and solid through the walls? How far do his senses stretch? 

(To the skip-stutter drumbeat of her heart, no doubt, which leaps and bounds in her chest like a child, begging for attention.)

Nate’s shoulders hunch, his height eased down, barely a foot of space left between them as they linger outside her door, and it feels like _waiting_ , but for what, she can’t say.

Amaia’s breath hitches, heat taking her cheeks in what is no doubt a healthy, full pink, and his smile shifts, taking on a longer curve--she would almost call it smug, if he were anyone else.

“I wish I could be there.” 

Breathless. She grips the doorknob in one hand, the other hovering with uncertainty in front of her; to reach for him, or to push away, she can’t decide. 

(Too close, _and yet-_ )

“To ensure the mission goes well?” She murmurs, pleased with the level timbre of her voice, far more certain than the slight weakness of her knees; as if she were a girl again, collapsing under a bludgeoning crush.

“To ensure your safety, actually.” 

He belongs under the full-bellied moon or in streams of sunlight. Stars and the smarting of dawn. In fields of flowers and under the melting gold of a library. Not in the square corners and artificial light of her hallway, his eyes soft as a doe’s, his mouth partly open, held in the suspended _almost_ of her inability to reach for him, to pull away.

Her fingers curl around the hem of his jacket, and he stills, his chest rising with a sharp inhale. She clings harder, bringing him forward, into her space. “I will be fine, Nathaniel.” _Agent Sewell,_ she’d meant to say. “Though your concern is noted... and appreciated.”

His head tilts to the side, catching on the slip of her tongue, the heavy brown of his eyes deepening with what she wants to describe as delight, and once again she regrets the ferris wheel and her refusal and she could kiss him, if he’d let her.

He’s far too easy to get lost in.

She swallows hard, and his gaze strays to the pale length of her throat, the divot of her teeth worrying at her bottom lip.

“I know you will be.” His hand raises, hesitating in the limbo of space between them. Waiting for her, no doubt, to push this _thing_ that they have away, to step back safely in her measured distance.

She doesn’t, and the back of his fingers brush along her cheek, thumb caressing the space beneath her eye. It would be kinder, in the long run, to stop this; to protect them both and find that self-control she knows she possesses, push him away.

But his touch is gentle and he is so kind, and her eyes flutter as his fingers slide into the heavy brown-black sheet of her hair. She inhales sharply, watching, waiting, the feeling in her chest ricocheting. “But still, I’m finding it more and more difficult to...”

“To?”

“I’d just like to be by your side.” He says softly. “I’d feel better, knowing I’m there to make sure nothing happens to you. Not that I don’t trust Adam, but I--”

A quiet laugh cuts from his chest, his head shaking, like he’s remembered himself and the distance she’d wanted to maintain--the distance she’s failing to maintain. “I should let you sleep. I apologize, Detective.” 

His hand slides from her hair, slow and dragging, extending the contact, and her heart lurches in her throat. 

She catches his hand between her own, her thumbs working over the architecture of his knuckles. She doesn’t dare meet his eyes, focusing instead on the details of his hand. “Nathaniel-- _Nate,_ I...” Turning it over, she follows the map on his palm--some old girlhood memory springing up as she trails the heart line, then the life line. “I’d like you to be there too.” 

_This can’t last,_ something in her says, and she tilts her head up to watch his face. His gaze bores into their point of contact, his hand and hers, and it’s all _too much,_ too soon, and still she rises up on her toes, closing the breach of space, watching his face for a sign that he wants her to stop. Instead, he leans in, down.

She lets go of his hand to curl her fingers across the back of his neck, pulling him close enough to press her lips the fine corner of his jaw. A shy, darting kiss, one she rips away from as quickly as she begins.

His skin on hers. A sensation that burns, settling into her palms, her lips. She’ll be feeling it for hours, long after he’s gone. 

Dropping her head, she steps back sharply, unwilling to watch his reaction to that strange, sudden display of affection, of wanting. “Goodnight, Agent Sewell.” She stutters, twisting her doorknob, ignoring the soft exhale of _Amaia--_ as she crosses the threshold of her apartment. “Sleep well.”

The crack of the door closing cuts off whatever he might have said next, and she collapses against it, her hand massaging where her heart beats, rattles, painfully in her chest. 


	3. charming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: a hand kiss on tumblr.

“And while your charm is quite effective, Agent Sewell--”

“My charm?”

“-- _Agent Sewell,_ ” she continues, shooting him a stern look. “It’s unnecessary here.”

He keeps her gaze, unflinching, a smile dragging slowly across his lips. She does not stare. She does _not_.

“If that’s what you wish, then I understand--though I’d be happy to speak to him for you." Is he _smirking?_ She flushes, balling her hands into fists. “So you find me charming?”

“I did--” _Christ._ “I did not say that.”

“Oh?”

“I only meant you have a certain...”

“A certain?” 

“Way with words, shall we say. With people. Other people. Not myself, of course.”

“Of course.” 

“Objectively, _objectively_ , you can be convincing. When you want to be. I can see how some might find it-- _you_ \--charming.”

Nate beams, and it’s-- well, it’s a lovely smile. Not that that is relevant, at all. To anything. Though she fails to see what he has to be so happy about, and _really, he’s--_ taking a small, slight step forward, inching into the bubble of space she keep. Just enough to make her suddenly, strikingly still. But not pulling away. Not yet.

"And what about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“What do you find charming, Detective?”

“Me?” A scoff cuts from her mouth, almost a laugh. “I don’t find anything _charming_.”

“Really? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.” An insistence, emphasized, her chin jerking up and mouth pressing into a hard line. “I don’t have time for such nonsense.”

“Ah,” He looks to the side. Good. It’s difficult to breathe with the full weight of his gaze on her. 

A moment’s silence settles between them, and she traces the almost aristocratic architecture of his side profile with her eyes. For aesthetic reasons, only, _of course_ \--she does not find him _attractive_ , he is just--

Handsome. Objectively. Like artwork. 

Nate turns to her again, brightening. “So you prefer a more direct approach?” 

“What?” 

“In conversation.” He clarifies, though she can’t help being suspicious of his intentions. His widening grin. 

“I-- yes, I suppose.”

“Good to know.” He hums, straightening up as though to leave. She straightens with him, stiff, a dismissal of a goodbye prepared.

But instead, he moves with careful, clear intent; a soft, broad-palmed hand stretching out slowly enough that she might pull away if she chooses too. And she should. She should. She doesn’t.

Watching her face, waiting for perhaps protest or denial, he takes her hand in his own, the touch ricocheting, comfortable heat sinking into her skin, and _how long has it been since someone has touched her, since she’s let them--_

Amaia’s breath catches in her throat, whatever she might have said swallowed down as he draws her hand up, as he leans down, as he holds her stare with a kind of spine-arching heat.

His lips are _soft_ , ghosting against her knuckles. His _mouth_. She cannot breathe. 

“I will see you later, Detective,” he murmurs, his lips caressing her skin, light and whispering, like butterfly wings. And then a full kiss, to her middle knuckle, knocks the air right from her lungs. 

_This is-- he is--_

“And if you should need anything,” _anything,_ she chokes, and his smile widens. “Please, do not hesitate to call on me.”

“That--” her thoughts scatter, reform, a blurry kaleidoscope of his warm skin on hers and his words and the way he’s looking at her, like she’s something to be wanted. He releases her hand, and she gasps, ever so quietly. “That will... that will not be necessary.”

“Even still,” he steps backward, toward the door, facing her all the while. She feels the loss of his presence, a strange ache, her hand burning. “The offer stands.”


	4. thunder

Wayhaven has summer thunderstorms.

She loved them as a girl. The air would swell with anticipation, thick and humid and waiting, _waiting_ , for the first crack of thunder, like the rumbling of a minor god. She would creep from the doorway and into the yard, almost to the treeline of her childhood forest, and reveal in the sharp, piercing rain, the swirling clouds, the wind whipping at her hair, turning her into a wilder thing, barefoot, skirt stained with grass, fed on myth dreams.

She’s older now, but her chest still fills up with that girl-delight when the first roll of it echoes through the room. So far underground, she can’t catch the beating of the rain, but if she left now, she could drive through it, indulge in this minor desire still sleeping under her left rib.

So she puts her shoes on, she closes her books, she makes her way through the Warehouse to bid her farewells. Farah and Morgan are gone, off to where, she couldn’t say, and Adam simply nods his farewell, their exchange brief; she finds Nate last—it is always most difficult to say goodbye to him, a twinge in her chest every time.

He’s tucked away, and it takes several minutes to track him down, following the soft, stumbling notes of a piano to find the broad set of his shoulders, turned away from her.

A brief knock on the door announces her presence, though she doubts he needs any warning, and he twists to face her, almost startled--the piano stutters, the final note ringing out as another burst of thunder echoes through the room.

“Amaia— Detective,” he acknowledges, inclining his head briefly, a strange tightness to the gesture.

A frown dents her brow. “Are you alright?”

“Quite.” He answers quickly, almost cutting her off. Odd.

“Was there— was there something you needed?” Twisting further around, one hand still settled over the keys of the piano, he looks strained, like a bow pulled taut. It’s a sharp kind of strain, the kind with edge, with teeth, and she steps further into the room, out of the doorway.

“I just wanted to tell you I’m heading home for the day.”

“Now?”

“Yes. I finished everything that—“

Thunder cracks through the room, like a whip snapped, and he jolts up to his feet, antsy in a way she’s never seen; pacing, tensed for the blow.

She freezes. “Are you _certain_ you’re alright?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He insists, stepping closer, his fists working at his sides. Clench, then release, like a beating heart. “Is that wise?”

“What, leaving?”

“In these conditions. Driving—”

“I know how to drive.” She doesn’t intend for it to cut, but he flinches, and the guilt smarts like a bee-sting, sudden and pinching. “I—... I apologize, that was rude.”

“Don’t worry,” he tries for a smile again, but it’s empty, flat. “I would prefer it if you stayed, though. At least until the rain stops. So I know you’re safe.”

Her heart squeezes. “The rain isn’t an issue.”

“Please, would you?”

This feels... important. Like a frayed rope, she sees the small unraveling of his careful displays, his ever-present calm, and it— he is asking her to stay.

She should leave. It would be kinder.

“I... have nothing left to do here.” A weak excuse, one she delivers without much weight or strength. Nate opens his mouth, a frown creasing his smooth brow, unmasked, flinching as the thunder echoes again. It takes whatever he might say next.

Stepping forward, she brings herself closer to him, nearer to the scattering of his usual composure. 

Is it the storm, then?

The silence pales, and she wonders what he’s thinking, what’s driven him to the unspoken boundary of their almost friendship.

“But if that’s what you want,” she murmurs, toeing off her shoes, pretends she doesn’t see the relief spread bittersweetly across his face.

“Thank you,” he says, turning half away from her.

Amaia steps around him to face the piano, the white keys glinting dully in the sleepy golden light of the room. “Do you play often?”

Quiet, edged with tension. He inhales, as if composing himself, and she shifts uncomfortably beneath the poorly crafted smile.

She turns, giving him the subtle privacy of her back. “Yes. Do you?” No elaboration, and she doesn’t ask.

Her fingers brush the keys lightly, carefully, not pushing down. “Ten years of lessons.”

Why she’s volunteering this information now, she can’t say; it feels like the right time to pull the focus off of him, to let him flinch and fray without question, without demands. 

There’s a need, building up in her chest. To comfort—to draw him into her lap, murmur that the storm would pass soon, that there was no need to be afraid, but she wonders if he would shy away from it, if he would dart from her hands like a startled animal. And she is so unpracticed in this, so untrained; there was no mother to brush her hair back as a girl, and her hands have grown cold, untender. 

But maybe the body-presence can be its own comfort—the presence of another human being, like a hand over a bleeding cut. She turns over her shoulder, offering him an awkward, almost smile, not quite meeting his eyes. “May I?” Privacy, gently placed.

“Yes, of course.” He murmurs, a rawness to the words. 

She settles into the old familiar place, her hands sliding lightly over the piano. She can feel his presence, eyes searing the back of her head, but she doesn’t turn, doesn’t make him cover his wounds for her sake. “It’s been a long time,” she says, half to herself.

Several minutes pass like this, silent, aching, the thunder an unsteady chorus to the stumbling of her notes, desperately out of practice, but hopefully some help. At the very least, a melody—if a little stunted—to fixate on, rather than the echoing bangs and cracks that haunt through the air.

Eventually, he stands beside her, lingering in a silent request to sit, and she shifts, opening up space for his larger frame.

His thigh brushes her own, a hot brand of awareness setting her skin to tingles, but she stays where she is, keeps playing her slow, stumbling lullaby.

“You don’t like thunderstorms?” She whispers, her fingers slowing on the keys, catching his gaze in the corner of her eye.

His mouth opens, the faintest sound—a word formed, then closed off, set aside. The almosts that come from memory, hooked in deep. 

She’s sticking her fingers into old wounds.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, we can just sit here.”

Nate exhales, slumping a little, the silence full of relief this time.

And she plays again, the melody faster now, lilting and more confident as the muscle memory returns. How long they stay like that, thigh to thigh, she can’t say, but after a time his hands join hers, picking up on the song and meeting it with his own. Their wrists do not collide and his shoulder barely, barely brushes hers, but they’re close, closer than she’s ever really been to him.

(She wonders what it would be like, to have him take her hand, point to where the scars split open, where the blood beats still. Would he open to her, or crack beneath her palms?)

The thunder rolls on, and when he stumbles, she plays a little louder.


	5. relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt on tumblr: a happy kiss. deep, _deep_ romance.

He’d been gone for three weeks. Taken by some vague missive and desperate need of a translator and the ability to deescalate.

Objectively, three weeks was nothing--it was the blink of an eye, the ticking of a clock and the marking off of Sundays passed, and the work did not stop simply because he was gone. 

And it was good work, the kind of puzzle she enjoyed. Adam had delegated some of Nate’s usual tasks to her--research, study, ferreting out the unusual in a world slanted half into faerieland, and any other time she would leap at the chance to undertake the more difficult tasks.

But his absence distracted in small, quiet ways. The split second she would turn to ask a question, only to find the space empty. The liminal strangeness of filling his space when he wasn’t there. The minor intrusions of her presence--mugs left on the table, the stark silver of her laptop and cellphone cleanly on display--something she would be chided for, no doubt, but she found quietly amusing--the scattered pages of her notes, scrawled and incoherent to everyone but her in their shorthand. She made a small indent of herself in what was irrevocably his.

It was a comfort, in its own way, like his hand upon her shoulder. Once her day at the station was done, she returned to the Warehouse, worked in the shadowplay of his influence, sunk into the corners he inhabited, and turned her findings in to Adam at the end of each day. She was efficient, effective, and didn’t allow Adam to doubt her capabilities for even a moment.

And yet.

The weeks passed this way, and on the last turn of Sunday, they receive word that he is slated to return well into the night, halfway to morning.

She does not bounce or jump or pace about the Warehouse awaiting his arrival. She does not fidget and twist and excitedly pull on Farah’s sleeve. Adam informs her of his return (her heart skips with flighty relief, and she promptly swallows it down) and she nods her understanding, returns to her research, pours herself back into the seemingly endless expanse of Bravo’s library.

But she does wait, the clock seeming to drag slower and slower with every turn.

She keeps her plausible deniability; she _is_ indeed working, and while, true, Adam did not ask her to stay awake well into the night, he also doesn’t insist she _go_ , or demand she sleep (the way Nate would, bringing to mind the unfortunate frailness of her humanity, exhaustion bruising beneath her eyes, pulling at the back of her mind like tugged strings.)

She waits until the screens blur, the words jumble, her handwriting faltering halfway through another note. She waits until the moon’s on high, no doubt, and it is quite impossible to decipher the dense texts and endless myths, all tangled up in almost truths and metaphor and human fear. 

Inevitably, she slumps forward, book in her lap, and tells herself she’ll close her eyes only for a moment, lulled into a current of half-sleep by the peaceful quiet and the deep, deep cushions of the reading chair. 

And, inevitably, she misses his return, already well past four in the morning. 

Nate finds her like this: knees tucked beneath her, head curled into her elbow, that hank of dark hair spilling over her shoulder, across the arm rest, nearly brushing the floor it’s grown so long. 

(She misses the way he followed the gentle drum of her heart the moment he stepped inside the Warehouse, pausing only to offer Adam a slight smile and a nod. She misses his shuddering exhale of love-softened relief, finding her safe and there, _there,_ the sight of her a balm.)

(And she misses the way his nose curls, just a little, at the sight of her computer still glowing dimly on the table.)

He kneels before her, but it’s his fingers tenderly pushing back her hair that rouses her. “ _Mmm,_ I’m awake,” she mumbles, rubbing her closed eyes with the heel of her palm, words slumped with sleep.

“Did you stay here all night?”

“Oh!” She snaps up, eyes widening with alertness, and Nate laughs, more a released breath of tender amusement than anything.

She inhales, the pressure that’s been sitting on her chest since he left suddenly, achingly gone, and a smile slips onto her lips, unguarded. “You’re back.”

“I am, and glad to see you,” he murmurs, returning his fingers to the soft slope of her cheeks, pillow-marked and flush with sleep. “Though this isn’t where I thought to find you... why aren’t you in bed?”

She blinks, filtering the question through the fugue jumbling of her thoughts. “I was wa--” she catches, sits up straighter, but doesn’t pull away from his touch. “I was working. There was-- the-- it doesn’t matter.”

Softer, she raises her hand to curl around his own, cradling it. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Her chest swells up with the sight of him, fit to burst. Even kneeling, he’s tall enough to keep at eye level with her, and she drinks in every detail.

A smile splits his lips, drawing crows feet around his warm, deep-seated eyes. She blinks away the last clutches of sleep, and realizes just how _tired_ he looks, a kind of weariness to the unchanging loveliness of his features. And still, still, he looks at her with _such--_

His mouth opens, and this is such unfamiliar territory, this newness that sits between them like molten gold, ready to be shaped into anything, anything at all. A small burst of panic--she fell asleep, how _insensitive_ \--and stutters out: “how did your mission go?” 

He lets her tuck his hand into her lap, the other one balancing on the arm rest next to her. Amaia runs both thumbs over his arched knuckles, massaging gently. 

“Truthfully, I’m glad to be home.” _Home_ , he says, and tilts forward. His voice stays soft, as if hesitant to break the quiet of early morning.

“Did anything... interesting happen?” 

Nate turns his hand over, tangling their fingers together. “Hmm...” he ponders teasingly, his eyes wandering over her face, observing the way she observes. “I met a rusalka.”

A light smile tugs at her lips. “Did she try to drown you?”

“Only once.” He returns, completely serious, and she stiffens; that was a _joke_.

“What?”

“After that, we had a lovely conversation. She informed me my accent needed work. It _has_ been a long time since I’ve needed to use Russian.”

“Are you alright?” Her grip tightens ever so slightly on his hand, and he nods, his smile placating. 

“Yes, quite. Just tired,” a pause, “better for having seen you.”

“Me too.” She breathes, one hand rising over his forearm, to the set of his shoulder.

He is so...

_Beloved._ She curls her fingers into the lapel of his jacket, holding lightly--easy enough to break from, if he chose to.

Nate waits, bated breath. This is so _new,_ and he is so careful, still as a deer.

“I would like to kiss you now,” she murmurs, swallowing hard, “if that’s alright with you.”

_“Please.”_

And she pulls him into her, hands snaking around his neck as his own--large and warm and she missed him _so much--_ curl around both sides of her jaw, fingertips sinking into her hair, nearly meeting at the back of her head. And the kiss is--

Loving. Relief. He kisses like a flower blooming. His name, taking root under her tongue, in her ribcage.

She breathes it against his lips, soft with love-- _“Nate,”_ a gasp or a prayer, and he smiles into her kisses, drinks her down like wine, soft and consuming all at once. 

She shifts, knees cradling around his chest as he comes ever closer, tugs her to the edge of the chair to slide his hand around her waist, sink his other into wildness of all her dark, dark hair.

He gasps into her mouth, and she returns it with a sigh, breaking the kiss only to breathe, only to slant her lips along the curve of his jaw, over the bow of his cheeks, over his long, fluttering eyelashes and down his nose. 

“I missed you,” she utters, confessional in nature. 

(Her heart in his teeth, and he holds it so carefully.)

“And I you. So much.” Another kiss, pressed and sweet, “so much.”

They linger for a time--seconds or minutes or hours, she couldn’t say, exploring the planes of his features with her lips, his hand slipping beneath her shirt, seeking out the contact of skin on skin, not _heated_ so much as comforting, like confirmation, like assurance.

He brushes his lips against her jaw, ghosting at her ear. “I should take you to bed,” he murmurs, teasing and light and she giggles-- _giggles!_ \--”it’s late.”

“I’m happy where I am.” She returns, his breath hot on her skin.

“You need sleep.”

“I _did_ sleep.”

He pulls back, still smiling, like he doesn’t quite believe her. “Then will you indulge me, lyubimaya, and come to bed, because _I_ would like to sleep--with you beside me.”

“What did you just call me?”

A kiss, to her nose this time. “Lyubimaya.”

She pulls away, pressing at his shoulders, unable to bite back a smile. He makes her smile so frequently now; how strange, how wonderful. “What does that mean?” 

“Come to bed, and I’ll tell you.” 

He tugs on her hands, standing up, his mouth firmly out of reach. Amaia sighs, rising to her feet, curling her fingers between his.

“Fine.”

“And,” he turns, gestures with one hand to her laptop, her phone, “we will be discussing _that_ in the morning.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “It isn’t contagious, Nathaniel.” 

“There are rules.”

Thoughtless, she blurts: “are you going to punish me?”

“I--” he blinks, interrupting the playful sternness on his brow. 

“...too much?”

“Not at all.” A gentle pull on her hand, and he draws her once again into his arms, chest to chest, ducking his head to brush their noses together. “Just a... ahem, a pleasant surprise.”

With every touch of his hand, her heart leaps and stutters and skips in her chest, kicking up, up, up--skin flushed, mouth soft, she pulls him once more into a kiss. “I missed you.” 


	6. breeze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: the word _breeze,_ on tumblr. deep romance.

He has, in the privacy of his own thoughts, often compared her to the night; sharply aware of the irony, yes, and maybe a bit amused by it. 

Amaia. Night sky, star-scattered, an epithet befitting her in all her quiet vastness. Despite the years, he has little talent for poetry--it requires a rawness of the spirit, the ability to split oneself open, bleed out into the ink, and he never could. 

But for her-- for her, he might try again.

The sun drenches her in gold, fuchsia. With a milk-white blanket beneath her and the summer wildflowers around, she becomes a slash of pale midnight in the flushing summer afternoon. 

She turns her face toward the light, eyes closed, and a drowsy sigh slips from her mouth. 

Not quite asleep, then, and he smiles.

The heat brings her lips to a shade of rosehip, her cheeks perfumed to a similar hue. Maybe it is simply that he’s never seen her like this, unable to drink in the sight of her fully except under cover of night. She is visceral, alive under the sunlight, his dark haired sylph. 

He commits the sight of her like this, akimbo and sun-kissed and beautiful, _beautiful_ , to memory.

A breeze rustles the trees around them, pulling her from that sleepy state of half-consciousness. A heartbeat, and her eyes flutter, her arms arch over her head, back arching just so. Another, softer exhale parts her mouth before she relaxes once more into the blanket, turns her gaze to him.

Nate settles his elbow atop a bent knee, his other hand stretching out to trace the soft line of her jaw, thumb running along her plumped bottom lip. 

Moments pass in silence, nothing exchanged between them but breath and observation as the insects buzz and the wind hums and the grass whispers, a thousand little sounds creating a minor tune to the drumbeat of her heart. Eventually, she murmurs, with pleased quiet, “you’re staring.”

Unabashed, he returns, with a soft smile about his lips, “I am.”

“Why?”

“I enjoy looking at you,” trails a path over the curve of her ear, her cheekbone, “would you like me to stop?”

She frowns, the softest crush of her brow, before shaking her head against his fingers. “No.”

“Then, would you like me to continue?”

Tilting her head, she presses further into his hand, and he obliges happily, setting the full of his palm to her cheek. “If you want.”

“It is not a question of want,” he leans down, and she rises to meet him, her fingers catching on the fabric of his shirt. A kiss, featherlight, and he hums into her mouth, “you should never doubt that I want you.”

She smiles--a gift, in its own right, with how rarely she does such a thing--and her fingers snake up his chest, finding their set on his neck. 

Instead of a reply, she meets him with another kiss, deeper and longer and sweet, a word he never would have used to describe her before. She kisses him, again and again, warm as the sun on his back.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr @forestcreatures, if anyone wants to talk about this lovely vampire man <3


End file.
